We’d like to welcome guest columnist and TC-icon Lino to the editorial chair for this edition, his own special blend of understated social observation bringing a much-needed dose of sophisticated wit to this poor site. So, without further ado, heeeeeeeeeeeeere’s Lino!

MUST……. VENT……… SPLEEN!!!!!

You know, I thought I’d made my point quite clear last year when we talked about the whole Opal Fruit/Starburst thing, but no, some people didn’t get it. This has been gnawing away at my brain for quite some time now. I’ve let it pass as I’ve had better things to do, but we’re terribly quiet at work just now, and if I don’t do something I’ll just end up ripping someone a new “asshole”. (Or arsehole for people who haven’t quite forgotten how to spell properly… Shut UP, I know that I don’t spell properly, but if I wanted a session of introspection I’d shell out 50 quid for an hour with a “councillor”). Right, where was I.. Ohhhhhhhh, yes.

Sugar Puffs, you know, the great old breakfast cereal that tastes of honey and if you eat too much of it, makes your urine smell of the cereal you’ve just eaten. No problem with that over here at Raffa Towers at all, no Sir. For years now, it’s various cheerful television advertising campaigns all had the same loveable big old yellow “Honey Monster” fronting them. For a while there, it all got a bit silly (big breasted Australian ex-soap opera “stars” appearing as love interest, rapping, playing “football” etc), but I stuck with them (even though I don’t eat the ruddy cereal). All this changed a few months ago when I happened to see a commercial for a great new breakfast product called “Cocopuffs”, and who was the spokesperson for this fabulous chocolatey tasting cereal feast? The Chocobunny? The Cocoshunter? No, they used the Honey Monster….

Does that make any sense to you??!!

Because it ruddy well doesn’t to me, he likes honey, he’s not ever mentioned his liking for anything even slightly chocolatey… The bastard.

Of course, since I saw that commercial, I saw the Ford commercial featuring the moose having his life flash before his eyes, and the Penguin biscuit commercial featuring the giant penguin trying to get into the aquarium (two quid, mate? Is that per fish?), so I’m feeling a lot happier.

OK, off you go….
     Lino

I feel his pain. My personal bugbear is companies who rebrand their products, usually in a desperate attempt to make them seem less crap. Pepsi spent 330 million pounds on relaunching their cola in (gasp!) a blue can, and sales still went down 15% because, guess what? It was still more fizzy dreck than fizzy drink. And now Marks and Spencers are up to the same sort of thing, to try and shore up their plummeting sales.

I have never had any sympathy for them, ever since I went in and tried to buy a suit. After fending off M&S card sales people, I discovered that the only credit card they accepted was their own one. I strongly suspect the decline of the company is connected less to the colour of its carrier bags (something they are apparently changing), and more to this selfish disregard for customer preference.

However, they do have one genius-level product: non-polish shoes, which form my entire work footwear wardrobe. I’ve no idea how it’s done (and why it wasn’t done before) but months after buying them, they still have that just-polished look. Well, at least I assume that’s what “just-polished” looks like, I think my last pair went their entire lives without feeling the caress of bristle… More of that kind of thing, and fewer prawn-and-avocado sandwiches, will soon see the company back on its (just-polished…) feet.

An early update this week, since I’m off to Southampton for the Minami anime convention tomorrow. And, indeed, not that much of an update, since my lifestyle has been destroyed by my VCR quietly grinding to a halt last Friday. “F05”, it said. “Refer to dealer”, replied the manual. “Where’s the bloody receipt?”, added Jim: though still (just) within the guarantee period, I can’t really take it back because of the absence of that little slip of paper. I found the receipt for the previous machine, of course… Phoned a repair shop or two, and they all breezily assured me it was a loading motor problem, and quite easy to fix. “Easy” is one thing, “cheap” is another. Hence, there will be a short delay before I get to review all the stuff I took back from the States.

Indeed, household appliances, and the house in general, seem to have dominated spending in TC Towers lately. The oven, long a source of interestingly clangy noises which made a simple pizza sound like a Test Dept concert, finally gave up the ghost. It’s been replaced, but by a gas oven, which is different enough to ensure I have been consuming my food either cold or carbonated. It doesn’t bother with anything sensible on the front like a temperature: it just goes from 1 to 9. The manual, even less usefully, describes 1 as “Cool” and 9 as “Very hot”. I think I could probably have worked this out myself. Expect sales of microwave-ready meals in the Tulse Hill area to increase.

We also discovered that roots belonging to the 1:1 Amazonian scale-model, thinly disguised as a hedge, which is planted in front of the house, are rapidly heading towards becoming an integral part of the foundations. The problem is, if we get rid of it now (perhaps we should have bought a wood-burning stove!), the cure might be nastier than the disease, involving the rebuilding of the entire front wall, before my bedroom suddenly acquires a genuinely “airy view”. I knew we should have Agent Orange’d the bastard the day we moved in.

Instead, now it’s going to cost a sum which is currently indeterminate, but likely to make the costs of new ovens and VCR repairs, pale into insignificance. Hang on, I thought we were simply trying to sell the house – y’know, get money out of it? I understand than you can only buy a house if you have money, but now it appears that you also need money if you want to sell it, too. I guess this is no more than we deserve, after seven years of largely neglected maintenance. The chickens (albeit more floral than faunal) are now coming home to roost…

Finally, went to the WCW wrestling at London Arena last weekend. Though the wrestling was thoroughly enjoyable, and the venue suitably spectacular, perhaps the two most memorable moments were outside. Firstly, Canary Wharf tube station, on the Jubilee Line extension: is it just me, or has the designer of it seen Logan’s Run once too often? I almost expected to see Jenny Agutter in a short skirt (“Look! There’s Jenny-bush!”) on the other escalator. And most amusingly, after the event, I was actually asked for my autograph. No, I don’t think I was mistaken for Sting or Bret Hart — the black-and-white striped shirt I had on just made me look like a ref! Hell, I signed anyway, and even added “referee” helpfully underneath. Somewhere out there, is a very confused kid carefully scanning each program to see whether his ref can be found…

As I left Phoenix, any legendary bird attempting to rise from the flames fire would have been distinctly soggy, doused by the sheets of rain pouring down from a severely un-Arizonan sky. They may not get much rain there, but they do tend to get an entire month’s worth in one American-sized helping. This was the same storm which succeeded in flushing a jet off the runway in California, parking it on the forecourt of a nearby garage: the pilot has now bought a house with the Green Shield stamps. Actually, that little incident brushed a little nearer home than I’d like as three days prior, I’d flown on the very same airline, Southwest, out of the very same airport, Las Vegas. Luckily, at that point conditions were a little calmer and Chris + I endured nothing traumatic than a surfeit of in-flight peanuts.

Las Vegas itself, on the other hand, was its usual wonderful, insane, excessive self. Since last visit, three more mega-hotels had popped up, including the Paris and the Venetian: the former had a 2/3 scale model of the Eiffel Tower in front, while the latter boasts a quarter-mile long Grand Canal, complete with gondolas (on the second floor, no less!) and a lobby which made the Sistine Chapel look like the daubings of a ten-year old. Bear in mind that this is all being built out of the quarters we drop into the slots…

Though we didn’t do too badly on this score. We were pleased to renew our acquaintance with our favourite Safebuster machines, though they are getting harder to find as newer, flashier models replace them. The wonderful thing about Safebuster is that you can tell when it’s going to pay out: the top is a safe with a combination lock which spins, and when you get three numbers in the right order, it goes into jackpot mode, paying out anywhere from $4 to $10,000. As you get the numbers, it “crosses them off” a panel at the top, and it’s surprising how many people walk away when two are gone, and the machine is on the verge of coughing up.

Thus, we have learned to “predate” on these machines; lurk innocently in the background, breathing discouragements under our breath, while some wizened granny fills it up for us, only to pounce the second she walks away. Then we nail the final cross down and rejoice in the resounding jingle of quarters, spilling out of the machine like guts from a freshly-slaughtered buffalo. We never quite managed enough to send that resignation fax, but on the last day, we left with over a hundred dollars. Plus, it’s just such fun — when you win, you win, and when you lose, the combination lock turns for an additional adrenaline boost.

Unfortunately, these machines are getting rarer – the condition of the ones we found was distinctly shabby – and I fear for their future. It may not be long before they are replaced by the bane of my gambling life: video slots. There’s something reassuringly solid about a machine with proper reels and I feel I’m getting some kind of mechanical recompense for my quarter, not just a flashing screen. Plus, frankly, I don’t trust video games — I’ve played enough of them to know that they can cheat the player without the slightest qualm. No matter the flashy features they may have, give me something with a handle on the side, that doesn’t gives you an electric shock if you are wearing the wrong kind of jumper.

It would be wrong to think that all our time in Vegas was spent gambling, or even that all my time in America was spent in Vegas, but here is not the place to reveal lurid details of a connection between the George Foreman Fat-Reducing Party Grill and cherry-liqueur chocolates. However, I will add that any readers looking for an alarm clock should check out the brutally kitsch wake-up calls currently on offer from Trash City’s commercial depot, as located at a trade show we bumped into behind the Venetian…